


Black Coffee

by L122ytorch



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Leather Kink, Masturbation, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 12:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L122ytorch/pseuds/L122ytorch
Summary: Olivia toys with the idea of visiting a club to...investigate...a long-held fantasy.





	Black Coffee

It's a gift I suppose. I knew that I was efficient. Able to produce drawings and paintings in hours where it took others weeks. I can type 98 words per minute. I can down a black coffee, set my brain on overdrive and finish eight hours worth of work in one or two. Efficient. It's never a word I would have associated with this...other...particular area of my life. 

I've heard that it takes some women hours to wind themselves up sexually. They have to be in the right head space, perhaps be horny for an entire week before the need becomes something that must be addressed. And even when addressing it, they require sufficient stimulation, a whole host of foreplay.

But not me. I'm efficient.

I've gotten myself to blissed out breathless recovery in as few as two minutes. Scratch that, I've gotten myself to the height of that mountain four times in two minutes. 

Efficient and insatiable. And hardly vanilla. 

I suppose that some people like vanilla things, but there are so many other flavors out there. Vanilla happens to be one of my least favorite flavors. Mocha, hazelnut, caramel, swirls of decadent chocolate, chunks of fresh fruit...my palette could span a thousand yards. So why, would I assume, that this would be any different.

I find the little things in life intoxicating. The creak of leather when I bend my knuckles, the sharply unique aroma of it as it stretches over me for the first time. The hum of a V8 engine purring beneath me as I recline in absurdly primary colored car. The way the snow has flattened as the week has passed, turning it into an icy snow sheet that crunches so satisfyingly beneath my feet. It's all about the senses, and the senses are all about the details. 

It was easy to swear I wouldn't do this, but harder to follow through. Actions so frenzied that I pulled the toy out of my nightstand unceremoniously, feeling my insides clench at just the sight of it. I haven't shared my absolute #1 fantasy with anyone, ever, but I conjure it in my mind as I gather up the wet between my legs with my pink toy. 

The push in is easy, it's not a big toy at all, slender but mighty. The problem with said toys is that I'm always too ready, too wet. It's easy to lose grip as the surprising strength of my internal muscles clench, drawing it in farther and farther. Mental note - relax, stop your inner walls from fluttering around it so much that it's nearly completely lost in the heat.

Skills. I have skills. I can use them on others, or I can turn them onto myself. I read people, climb inside their head, observe every sound, every fluttering eyelash and tattered breath and adjust what I do accordingly. Sex is an art and a science. My two best subjects. 

Lips muttering something incoherent, my hips lift off the bed as the toy vibrates and the first climax hits. Open, panting, dripping, cursing that I'm alone. 

By the time I'm done with myself, it's 2:17 in the morning. The soft blue sheets beneath me absorb the slowing breaths. Snow is gathered outside my window that looks up at the stars. Clouds are draped around the nearly full moon in a celestial display one can only find by living at 6000 feet. 

Trying to clutch at sleep, my brain flits through a variety of thoughts and comes to rest on a name, the name of a club. I've never been to a club like the one I think about, although I have been a dom. Power to the women right? But I know where this one is. I've been invited. I live among the posh as an imposter of the elite and this club is no exception. 

I can almost smell the leather as I bury my face into the silk of my straightened hair. Mixed with my perfume, it's a heady concoction, one that I want to share with a willing participant. But the fantasy is complicated. I consider dropping it. But don't.

Every rub of the sheets against my naked ass seems to whisper into my skin, "go, do it." A humming brain buzzed from climax is far from reason. But even with reason, I wish to go. I will go. 

The pitch black of sleep wraps around me like my down comforter and thoughts of black and red and collars and key cards and martinis swirl around in a torrent of fevered dreams. 

One simply cannot asked to be a vanilla bean when born as black coffee.


End file.
